Sublime

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.4

‘I wish that you had saved him,’ I told it. I did not feel that it responded in any way. It seemed drowsy, dozing, only half alive. Without the Rushing Waters to animate it, it was no longer the devil that had danced on the Waves, first mocking Dr Ketterley and then abandoning him.

I sit, with all my theories, metaphors, and equations, Shakespeare and Milton, Barthes, Du Fu, and Homer, masters of death who can’t, at last, teach me how to touch my dead.

The eloquence of inadequacy is richly comforting, entoiling the futile man in beglamouring postulations of the impossible. Hugh Kenner, The Invisible Poet: T. S. Eliot

for ever still a messenger, a passenger, a tarrier, a-roving as a feather does, a weather-driven mariner.

so, in his inclement, howling old age, Ahab's soul, shut up in the caved trunk of his body, there fed upon the sullen paws of its gloom!

‘You are a poem – and that is to be the best part of a poet – what makes up the poet’s consciousness in his best moods,’ said Will, showing such originality as we all share with the morning and the spring-time and other endless renewals.

‘Christabel LaMotte. Daughter of Isidore, the mythographer. Last Things. Tales Told in November. An epic called The Fairy Melusina. Very bizarre. Do you know about Melusina? She was a fairy who married a mortal to

The poet Tennyson has left us, in his MEMOIRS, an account of his repetitious device for passing beyond the conscious mind into superconsciousness: